


The Secret of Hazel Grange

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID-19, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, M/M, POV: Sherlock, pandemic Christmas, post-series 4 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: John has a secret, and Sherlock is bothered. Trapped together at Baker Street during the lockdown, the tension only grows worse as Christmas draws nearer...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 221
Kudos: 510





	The Secret of Hazel Grange

**The Secret of Hazel Grange**

John has a secret. 

This much is patently clear, though – so far, at least – Sherlock has not deduced what it is. Which is merely to say that he hasn’t, specifically, attempted to do so. It may, he can concede, be because he doesn’t particularly care to find out. The things which John keeps secrets about have historically not proven to have good outcomes for either of them, and at the moment, Sherlock would frankly prefer not to delve into it. If he’s learned only one thing in his years of association with John, perhaps it’s that: _don’t_ go looking. 

A ridiculous position for a self-described detective to be taking, but there it is, Sherlock thinks rather sourly, trying to ignore the fact that John is hunched over his laptop in his armchair, every unspoken gesture of his body language communicating closure and secrecy. There’s tension in his shoulders and he’s frowning, elbows postured outward in a pathetically obvious signal of defence. He isn’t typing, just clicking: searching for something, then. At least he doesn’t seem to be writing love poetry. 

Yet. Sherlock stifles the urge to sigh and rapidly scans through the four new investigation requests that have come in through the blog today. There’s nothing of interest, or nothing that currently meets the limitations under which they’re now working. He could turn his attention to whatever it is that John has been hiding for the past several weeks. The truth is that it’s more than reluctance: he downright dreads finding out what it is. He doesn’t even want to ask, not even a deftly-put, light verbal probe. It’s been… he’s got to stop and think. What month is it? This year, with the pandemic, all the months have blurred together, this year more than most. The pandemic made for a good excuse, back in March. _Why don’t you and Rosie just come and stay at Baker Street?_ he’d suggested. _We can be a bubble. I can watch Rosie if you’re short, or if you need to cut your contacts even further. If her nursery closes. You know._ He’d floundered a little. _It would be – pragmatic_. Awkward, but John had agreed without much of an argument, and he and Rosie had moved in the next day. It took some adjusting, life with a baby in the house, but Mrs Hudson’s been quite good about taking her off their hands. Meanwhile, John’s work has ebbed and flowed, but these days both clinics have all but closed. Several of the nurses and doctors have departed to work in hospitals and testing centres, and John’s been told he’s off the hook, given that he lives with a senior and a young child. John didn’t argue. _It’ll give me more time to work with you,_ he’d pointed out, but now casework has been quite limited, too. They haven’t told Mrs Hudson that she’s the reason they’ve been careful about which cases to accept, or why they’ve generally stayed around the house a lot more, choosing primarily cases which can be solved without them leaving the house. John did rather firmly insist that they take over getting her shopping, which she agreed to with only a slight fuss, back in early April, and it’s carried on ever since. Now, though, with cases on the rise in London, they’ve started ordering the groceries delivered for all of them. _Best not taking unnecessary risks_ , John had said briskly, and Sherlock agreed. Mrs Hudson will be seventy-nine come next March, after all. 

But the truth is that he’s bored. John’s bored, too. Mrs Hudson has busied herself with a newfound hobby of sourdough bread and getting into all the latest Netflix shows, teaching herself how to crotchet with online lessons and having late night phone calls with Mr Chatterjee, her sister, and her book club friends. She’s fine. It’s the two of them who aren’t. 

He could ask John, on the grounds of Covid-19 safety and household bubbles. He could ask if John is seeing someone. But he doesn’t want to be told, if that’s the case. Sherlock does sigh now. He closes his laptop and gets up, stretching the kinks out of his lower back and wandering into the kitchen. 

“You putting the kettle on?” John asks, his voice slightly unfocused in a way Sherlock dislikes. 

“No.” He didn’t mean it to sound sharp, but it does, a bit. “I was going to start supper.” 

“Oh.” Now John looks up and cranes his head around to look at him. “Is it that late?” 

Sherlock looks over at the clock on the microwave. “It’s just after six. Late enough, I should think.” 

“Right. Yeah.” John closes his laptop, so whatever he was looking at doesn’t seem to be that pressing, to Sherlock’s private satisfaction. He sets the computer aside and gets to his feet. “What are we making?” 

_We_. The word nettles, a bit. It’s true that they’re a household, a domestic group. But they’re not quite a _we_. Not in the way that other people are. Not in the way Sherlock wishes they were, therefore it rankles. “I was going to try something a bit new,” he says, a little aloof. “I thought you might like it.” 

John’s eyebrows rise. “What’s that, then?” He self-consciously tugs down his jumper, though it wasn’t rumpled, and Sherlock tries very hard not to let his eyes drift over John’s midsection. 

He explains. “I just had an idea I thought about trying. Taco-stuffed peppers. It’s meant to be a cross between regular stuffed peppers, which I don’t think you particularly care for, and tacos, which you do.”

John hesitates. “I just don’t like green peppers,” he says. “Or the rice, which I’m trying to avoid…” 

“Yes. I know,” Sherlock says, not quite cutting him off. This is delicate territory. John gained just over fifteen pounds during the first lockdown started back in spring. He lost much of it with jogging and going to the gym over the summer, but now that the gym has closed again for the second lockdown and the cold late-November weather has made it unpleasant to jog outside, John has been fretting about the weight coming back. His solution for this has been to attempt to cut back on eating carbs, but he’s also been at a loss as to how to cook around his self-imposed restriction. Hence, Sherlock’s latest project in lieu of cases that they can solve without leaving the flat has been to quietly research low carb cooking strategies that actually taste good, because John is actually quite picky when it comes to food. On top of that, he’s insecure about his appearance, now more than ever, and flares up rather easily over it. “I bought orange peppers,” Sherlock says. “I thought I would cook the minced beef with taco seasoning and onion, then mix in the other usual fillings, top them with cheddar cheese, and roast them. Thoughts?” 

John, to Sherlock’s scrutinising eye, looks intrigued. “That actually sounds rather good,” he says. “Er, should I help? Chop… something?” 

Sherlock has also learned better than to turn down John’s offers of help. He’s learning. Slowly. “All right,” he says carefully. “I was also thinking about making a salad to go with, so… perhaps you could look after that?” 

John nods. “Right. Okay.” He goes to the fridge. “What have we got, then?” 

He busies himself with the salad, leaving Sherlock to efficiently de-seed and prepare the peppers while the oven heats. This done, he places the peppers in a shallow baking dish and sets about chopping onion. Next he fries the mince and onion together, using a store-bought packet of seasoning mix to flavour it. Once this is cooked through, he stirs chopped tomato, bits of pepper from the tops that he cut off, and a handful of grated cheddar into the meat. When this has melted, he scoops the beef mixture into the peppers. There’s exactly enough to fill them, with a little leftover. He covers the tops of the peppers with more cheddar and places the dish in the oven, setting a timer for thirty minutes. That should be about enough, he reasons.

He glances over at John, debating whether or not to attempt to instigate conversation. It occurs to Sherlock that these prolonged moments of less-than-easy silence have grown worse over the past couple of months. Considerably worse, now that he thinks of it. He’s rarely second-guessed himself as much over every little thing with John. Things he once took for granted about the general ease of their companionship, permissions in terms of how and when an opening gambit might work – all of these calculations, he simply never used to think of at all. Now he finds himself weighing every possibility with increasing dubiousness. And yet he wants to break the silence. Better keep it safely dull, then. “I think thirty minutes should about do,” he says, meaning the peppers. 

John looks up as though slightly startled to be spoken to, which grates. (Had he forgotten Sherlock was even there?) He’s briskly whisking an oil and vinegar mixture in a small bowl. “All right,” he says. He looks back down at the bowl he’s holding with a slight frown, as though the vinaigrette is posing him a difficult question. “I was going to say, it smells good. The beef.” 

He delivers this without making eye contact, which perversely makes Sherlock want to do something, anything, to get John to look at him. He decides against it. “Thank you,” he says. John’s compliment was blandly given, as though to a perfect stranger, not best friends and housemates who have been through life and death together, more than once. His response is equally bland and he feels rather flat. 

He goes back to his laptop to wait for the timer to go off. 

*** 

The peppers turn out rather splendidly in the end, which pleases them both. Somehow this seems to ease the conversation between them. Or perhaps it’s the wine that helps; Sherlock opened a bottle of Shiraz he found in the pantry and let it breathe as he cleaned and laid the table. John’s salad is crisp and light and to his own surprise, Sherlock finds the pepper more filling than he had expected. As it turns out, making modifications to suit John’s new dietary restriction isn’t as difficult as he might have thought. He would never say it aloud, at least not to John, but he is more than prepared to go along with whatever John feels he needs to do. It works out rather well that having a background in chemistry makes Sherlock rather good at cooking when he puts his mind to it. Making meals that they can both enjoy while adhering to John’s self-imposed limitations has turned into a bit of a puzzle. It’s not as stimulating as an actual case, but as distractions go, it’s not half bad, Sherlock thinks. He would also never say that John’s weight is just fine, that he needn’t fret about it. If anything, he could point out that the push-ups and something that looks akin to torture which John terms ‘mountain climbers’ and all the rest of the calisthenics routine he’s devised for himself, performed in his bedroom unless Rosie is asleep up there, have hardened John’s abs and arms noticeably. If the weight number itself hasn’t changed enough to make John happy, it’s only because he’s built more muscle tone. Sherlock can never say this, obviously. The very last thing he needs is for John to discover that he’s observed this, kept (obsessive) track of the changes in his body. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t even particularly mind the added weight back in the spring. John looked fine. Obviously, he’s also kept this thought absolutely o himself. What he’s striving for is neutrality – neither contempt nor praise. 

Unfortunately, it seems to have rendered their once-scintillating friendship rather dull. Sherlock suppresses a sigh and pushes away his plate. “More wine?” he offers. 

John shakes his head. “No, that was perfect. I’m stuffed, actually.” 

Sherlock offers a half-smile. “That’s fitting, considering.” 

Happily, John doesn’t misread it for some sort of insult aimed at his midsection or something. “True,” he says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well done. Brilliant invention.” 

Sherlock is careful not to look too pleased. “I’m glad they turned out,” he says lightly. “Shall we watch the news, then, or have you got something else to do?” 

John looks a bit baffled. “No, I haven’t got anything else on,” he says, almost sounding irked by this. Not quite, just almost. “I’ll just do a bit of clean up in here, since you did the lion’s share of the cooking.” 

“I can help,” Sherlock says automatically. John doesn’t protest, so they efficiently restore order to the kitchen together. John puts on the kettle and makes them a pot of mint tea to help them both digest, and they drink it with the news on, each safely ensconced in his own chair. Sometimes, in the past, they’ve moved the television to the coffee table and watched films together on the sofa. Not anymore, it seems. 

He doesn’t object to this, either. When it comes to John, Sherlock knows quite well that he made a decision long ago to accept however much John is willing to grant him. It’s just a pity that what that is seems to be so very far from what he secretly yearns for. It’s not to be – he’s always known that. He’s trying his best to make meals off the crumbs John is willing to give him and make that be enough. He’s got very good at making do. It could be enough. It all depends on whatever it is that John is hiding from him. 

*** 

The thumping from upstairs means that John is working out. Rosie is with Molly, one of the last people outside their household bubble that John still entrusts with the care of his child from time to time, and then only because Molly entreated him. Since Molly’s social life was limited to begin with (“tactless”, John would point out, though he knows it’s true) and most of her work requires a high level of sanitisation and entails more contact with the deceased than the living, this seemed cautiously acceptable when they discussed it, though Sherlock was surprised that John asked his opinion about it at all. 

“Well, it does affect you,” John pointed out, when Sherlock said something diffident to this effect. “I mean, anyone who takes Rosie brings the possibility of cross-contamination into our house. We really can’t be too careful.” 

Sherlock had agreed; thus: Molly. Meanwhile, this particular set of thumps means that John has advanced to something he calls ‘speed-skaters’, which is a ridiculous movement meant to replicate the motion of speed skating, only without the ice. It means, in other words, that he’s nearly finished, which in turn means that John is about to come downstairs, hot, sweaty, and altogether grimly pleased with himself as he makes for the shower. The ensuing endorphins from the workout will ensure a generally better mood, and he’ll likely want to eat fairly soon after, something high in protein and, of course, nonexistent in carb. 

He is studiously turning the pages of one of the papers when John comes down, shirtless and streaming sweat, his face rosy. “Morning!” John says, still a bit breathless. 

Sherlock glances up at him and does his best not to react visually to John’s appearance, which is difficult. Something seems to be lodged in his throat. “Good morning,” he manages, trying to swallow around whatever it is. John looks phenomenal, in fact. It’s been precisely twenty days since Sherlock last saw him without a shirt, and that was only because he happened to come home from the lab earlier than John was expecting and caught him in the middle of his workout routine in the sitting room, as Rosie was having her nap at the time. He’d hastily taken himself into the kitchen and closed the doors to give John some privacy, but not without having caught a forbidden glimpse of the sight of John exercising. The three weeks have been good to John – very good, indeed. His entire torso has firmed up, his shoulders more defined, and with his skin gleaming with sweat that way, Sherlock finds himself utterly swamped with an embarrassingly carnal desire to crawl across the room and trace his tongue up the length of John’s unclad stomach and chest to his throat. He swallows again and turns another page, shaking it out to hide how flustered he is. John hasn’t even noticed, though; he’s off down the corridor, whistling to himself. 

Once the bathroom door has closed, Sherlock lets out his breath and closes his eyes for a long minute. These moments of weakness are getting worse and worse. He knows very well what he feels for John, the ongoing and almost suffocating attraction that he feels for him rivalling it in equal measure. This has got to stop. Maybe that’s what’s made everything so awkward these days: his constant need to hide it and attempt to present himself in a manner which John would find acceptable. He would, in all likelihood, be horrified if he knew how Sherlock felt, about the private fantasies he occasionally (regularly) entertains. Normally he’s able to contain these, curb himself anytime John is about, save them for late at night in the privacy and solitude of his own room. Or better yet, not give in to them at all. 

If John even suspected, he would never parade himself around half-naked like that, Sherlock thinks. John wouldn’t be deliberately cruel about it. Not after everything they said, that one night in March, not long after John and Rosie moved back in. They talked about all of it then, sorting through years of misunderstandings and pain: the snipers, Moriarty, Magnussen, Mary, Eurus. That day in the morgue. All of it. All but Sherlock’s long-held secret of the way he feels for John, which would probably horrify him even more than the physical attraction. The important thing at the time had been to regain their friendship, set things on a better course. And they had done. But maybe now, exacerbated by the pandemic and all of the enforced time together, John has grown bored of him, restless with cabin fever and yearning for better company. Or possibly just company that he can find sexual gratification in, Sherlock thinks irritably. He would certainly never consider _him_ as a candidate for that. John would be appalled by the very notion. 

Never mind. He accepted long ago that this is an impossibility. Perhaps he’ll get a start on breakfast. Yes: it would be good to have something practical to do, to take his mind off these ridiculous notions. Focus: what would John like? Something involving eggs and meat of some sort and obviously no bread products of any kind. Those should all be safely stowed in the freezer, anyway. Coffee. Yes. Sherlock gets up and makes for the kitchen with determination to see what they’ve got in. It’s not much – making breakfast, that is – but it’s something that John would accept from him, perhaps even score him a few points. He would never admit how desperately he wants that, for John to want anything from him at all. The thing is, Sherlock reminds himself, not to think about it too much. 

Nevertheless, he thinks of nothing else whatsoever as he cooks. 

*** 

Late November gives way to early December. Mrs Hudson comes up on the eighth to ask anxiously whether or not she’ll be permitted to decorate this year, given “… everything,” she says, gesturing a bit vaguely. 

Sherlock glances at John. “Yes, of course you can,” he says.

She brightens visibly. “Really?”

“There’s a turn-up for the books,” John says, half into his mug of tea. 

“Normally you put up a massive fuss!” Mrs Hudson is beaming, though, and Sherlock shrugs. 

“Oh, what’s the point,” he says crossly. “God knows we’ve lost enough of whatever it is that makes people happy this year. If decorating the flat will make you happy, then decorate the flat.” 

Mrs Hudson comes over and flings her thin arms about him and Sherlock permits it, patting her on the back. Behind her, John meets his eye and smiles, and the corners of Sherlock’s mouth tug into a smile that he can’t help. “That’s lovely of you,” Mrs Hudson tells him, squeezing his upper arms before releasing him. “And ooh, but your arms are feeling _firm!_ Has John got you doing all those push-ups with him at last?” 

John snorts, back on his laptop and not looking up at them. “That’ll be the day.” 

Sherlock separates himself from her rather stiffly. “No,” he says. “My arms are just the same as they’ve ever been. Are you also going to be starting your Christmas baking soon?” 

The diversion works. “Yes, of course,” Mrs Hudson says, sounding surprised and a little indignant. “What sort of a person would I be if I stopped baking just because of this bloody virus?” 

Sherlock smiles, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “You’ll do – ”

“Yes, of course I’ll do my mince pies,” Mrs Hudson assures him, cutting him off, and John’s laugh comes out through his nose. Mrs Hudson looks over at him. “I suppose _you’ll_ go on being a martyr about the sweets?” 

“No sugar for me, yeah,” John says regretfully. Then, seeing her face, he retracts it a little. “Well, maybe just one or two. If I factor it in.” 

Mrs Hudson turns back to Sherlock and rolls her eyes at him. “How gracious of you,” she says, though there’s real amusement behind it. 

Sherlock feels the corners of his mouth tighten again but doesn’t let himself smile in case John catches it out his peripheral vision, which is alarmingly good. “Do you need help bringing up the boxes?” he asks instead. 

“Oh, if you’re offering, I suppose,” Mrs Hudson says. “What I really need is for the two of you to get a tree. Or is it too dodgy to go out there and buy one this year? I suppose we could order an artificial one…” 

The delicate wrinkle of her nose says exactly what she thinks of that. Sherlock looks over at John, who looks up and shrugs. “We’ve been quite good about staying home for the most part,” Sherlock says slowly. “I suppose we could venture out in search of a tree.” 

John makes a sound of agreement. “True. And if we ordered a fake one online, I’m not sure it’d get here in time, what with all the post delays. We’ll just be very careful. Maybe phone ahead and make sure they’ve got trees in stock before we go and all that.” 

Mrs Hudson looks relieved. “Lovely!” she says. “In that case, I’ll get Mr Push-Ups here to come back down with me to haul up the boxes.”

John heaves a sigh, but dutifully closes his laptop. “What, Sherlock’s arms aren’t up to the job?” 

Sherlock hides a smile; he knows very well that John is secretly pleased by this, and that Mrs Hudson asked him for this precise reason, too. Or – well, not asked, per se, but it doesn’t matter. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he says. “Make us all a cup of tea while we decorate. I assume we’re being dragooned into helping with that.” 

Mrs Hudson treats him to her brightest smile. “Right in one! But let’s make it hot chocolate, shall we? With a nice splash of Bailey’s, if you’ve got it. It’s Christmas, after all, or will be soon enough. We’ve got to do what we can to keep our spirits up, haven’t we?” 

Sherlock looks to John again, almost holding his breath against the inevitable protest. “I’ll make _you_ a cup of tea, and hot chocolate for Mrs Hudson and I,” he says quickly, staving it off, and it works: John’s shoulders relax again before he can object. 

“Sounds good,” he says. He stands up and casually lays a heavy book on top of his laptop, probably entirely unaware of how much it draws attention to the fact that he wants his laptop and whatever he was looking at on it left strictly alone. He goes downstairs with Mrs Hudson, her chattering about snow in the forecast, leaving Sherlock behind to glare at the computer where it’s sitting. 

*** 

It’s a purchase of some sort. Sherlock has deduced that much. John finishes whatever research he was doing on the twelfth, casting suspicious looks in Sherlock’s direction – making sure that he isn’t too close by, then – and gets up to fish his credit card out of his wallet where he left it in his jacket pocket. Of course he hasn’t got the number memorised, Sherlock thinks, trying not to scowl as he pretends to not notice John doing this. If he asked, Sherlock could give him not only the number, but the expiry date and security number, as well as the billing address (still Baker Street, since before his short-lived marriage), but John hasn’t asked. Sherlock could also just log into John’s online bank account in a day or two and see what the purchase was, and John surely knows this, too, but Sherlock won’t. It’s extremely clear that John doesn’t want him to know what he’s doing, so Sherlock is pointedly refusing to ask or find out for himself. 

John sits down again, pulls the undisturbed laptop back onto his lap, and painstakingly types in his credit card information, clicks some things, then waits. He pulls out his phone next, checks something – confirming the purchase before he closes the window, probably – John is deeply suspicious of online purchases in general – and then his brow clears and he puts the phone away. The confirmation came through, then: whatever his secretive purchase was has gone through. 

Good, Sherlock thinks, still trying actively not to scowl. Maybe whatever John was dithering about has finally been resolved now that he’s seemingly made up his mind about whatever it was he just bought, and he’ll stop being in such a gruff mood. It was clearly a large purchase to warrant such a large decision. He’s been in this state for nearly a month now. Hopefully this will improve matters somewhat. 

He wonders whether it’s a trip or something. Perhaps John and his secret new girlfriend (??? Sherlock can’t be certain) are going away somewhere. Maybe for Christmas. Sherlock could raise the subject, talk about how travel is a bad idea, that he isn’t even going to his parents’ for Christmas this year, out of the necessity to protect them. His mother scoffs at people overreacting, but she’s already reluctantly agreed that people shouldn’t be cross-contaminating one another’s houses. “A hotel would be different, they clean those with all of those disinfectants and such, and there’s space between the parties. Private homes are different,” she’d said when they last talked, and Sherlock had agreed. John could be going to a hotel, though. The thought of being at Baker Street without him over Christmas – a day he has never bothered about much, but still – is bleak. Mrs Hudson will go to her sister’s, as always. Alice Hudson is six years older and frail, and Mrs Hudson is one of the only people she sees. They always celebrate together, only Alice’s children normally go, too. This year it’s only to be the two of them, with the children and grandchildren calling in over Zoom. Sherlock thinks it’s sounds ghastly, but Mrs Hudson seems philosophically cheerful enough about it. 

He could bring up the notion of exposure on the trains, if John is going away somewhere. He could mention it. But it would make him look petty, which it would be. John is sensible; he knows better than to take unnecessary risks. They agreed about a month ago to keep their household bubble as closed as possible. Surely John wouldn’t risk that by introducing a stranger into their germ pool. Not that he probably thinks of it that way, Sherlock thinks, jabbing viciously at the keys of his laptop as he refuses to take a lost cat case on his blog. When it comes to sex, John’s brain has an entirely separate department for dealing with the subject, wholly removed from concepts like logic or common sense. He could have a secret girlfriend. It’s entirely within the realm of possibility based on precedent. In the past, John used to spring these new girlfriends on him as a fait accompli, usually after about three or four weeks of dating. Sherlock always knew – maybe not the specific woman, but he always knew that John was seeing someone. He would grow secretive and distant, a bit aloof. Rather like now, only John seems somehow more agitated this time. 

Perhaps it’s doubt about his ability to accurately judge character. He certainly does have a track record there, Sherlock thinks, rather meanly. He notes internally that this is decidedly stemming from the jealousy he’s currently writhing in, but it holds water nonetheless. 

Maybe having made his decision to buy whatever it is he just bought will calm things down. Sherlock casts a furtive look at John over the top of his laptop and sees that John is chewing his lip, his forehead creased again. It doesn’t look particularly likely, but time will tell. 

*** 

Sherlock’s hopes are dashed. If anything, John’s private unease seems to grow worse, and in turn, Sherlock becomes even more stiffly polite. Meanwhile, his own agitation over whatever John’s secret plans are have begun to rise in a slow but steady internal crescendo. The temptation to probe is very strong. Should he just ask what John’s plans are for Christmas? Or would that just backfire and make John prickly, defensive, and even more guarded? 

He overhears something on the twelfth: John is on the phone with someone in his room, but the door must be open, because Sherlock can just catch the odd word or two. As he stands at the foot of the stairs, he distinctly hears John utter the words, “… Hazel Grange, yeah.” His mind immediately begins to whirl: who or what is Hazel Grange? Is this the name of John’s mysterious new person? Sherlock’s heart is thudding. He turns away, reminding himself sharply that he wanted to avoid discovering John’s secret. When – or if – John deems him worthy of knowing whatever it is, surely John will tell him of his own accord. 

On the fourteenth of December, the pressure overcomes Sherlock and he decides to try the very lightest of queries via a side-path, skirting the main subject. He’s in the kitchen, surveying the spice rack and contemplating whether or not to add any to a courgette gratin he’s attempting. He read several recipes, then rejected them all and is winging it, albeit slightly against his better judgement. “Bit difficult shopping for gifts this year,” he says, rather diffidently. 

“Hmm?” John isn’t paying attention, bent over his (bloody) laptop again at the desk. At least he asks, though, when Sherlock doesn’t offer it again. “What’s that?” 

“I said, it’s a bit difficult shopping for gifts this year,” Sherlock repeats. “What with avoiding shops. And it seems I’ve left it rather late for online shopping.” 

John snorts. “Can’t imagine you doing much of that, anyway.” 

Sherlock pauses, hesitating over both the best choice of words as well as his culinary options. Maybe it doesn’t need much in the way of spice. Perhaps some garlic in the cream: yes. Solving the issue of John is a considerably more difficult puzzle. “We usually exchange gifts,” he says, feeling even less certain about this line of conversation. “And I usually get something for my parents and Mrs Hudson.” 

John does look up now, his expression rather wary. “You don’t need to get me anything,” he says, sounding awkward. “It’s been a shit year. And as you said, going round to the shops isn’t exactly a great idea at the moment. You could probably get your parents a gift card for a nice restaurant in the village or something. Ditto for Mrs Hudson, probably. For once restaurants are open again. I don’t know.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, weighing his options and biting his lip. “What about Rosie?” he asks, trying to edge closer to the topic of Christmas itself. “What should I get for her?” 

John shrugs. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. It’s not like she knows the date, anyway.” 

“Yes, but if I did get her something, when would I… give it to her?” Sherlock presses, almost holding his breath. 

John’s lips compress a bit. “Oh,” he says. He looks down at the keyboard where his fingers are still resting. “Maybe around the twenty-second? I told Molly she could take Rosie to her parents’ for a week or so. She asked. Her parents have been self-isolating for weeks and they were dying to having Rosie there for a bit. I said it was all right, provided they’re still in good health. Molly’s going to check their temperatures before they go inside and all that.” 

Sherlock listens, but all he hears is the subtext: Rosie is being sent away for Christmas. John _is_ going away, then. Where? And with whom, precisely? (Is this Hazel Grange?) The question is there, painfully obvious and hovering loudly between them. Sherlock feels as though John is silently willing him not to ask it, that asking will cause something between them to shatter. He chokes it back down and swallows it, feeling hollow. Focus on the onion: yes. Good. It’s good to have something specific to do. Even so, he can’t seem to make his hands function. His fingers have turned useless, the knife stilling in his hands. 

For a few moments, everything feels exquisitely charged. Then John gets up and comes over, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. “What’s that you’re making?” he asks. 

The tightness hasn’t left Sherlock’s throat. “It’s meant to be a courgette gratin.” 

John makes an interested sound. “What’s all going in there?” 

Sherlock forces himself to focus and slices half the red onion and dices it finely. “Courgette, obviously, red onion, grated mozzarella, a sauce I was going to make with cream, butter, and probably garlic, salt, pepper, et cetera. More mozzarella on top. It’s a bit of an experiment.” His tone is completely devoid of expression. 

John makes that same sound. “Sounds good,” he says. “Need any help? Or… what else were you thinking we’d have with it?” 

“Sausages,” Sherlock says. He nods toward the fridge. “I ordered some for us to try with the last online shop. No idea what they’ll be like.” 

“Should I get them out?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I was going to cook them on the range, since the gratin will be in the oven, and they won’t take very long.” 

“I can do them when you think it’s time,” John offers. 

Sherlock shrugs. “All right,” he says, not particularly caring. What does it matter about sausages when John is leaving for Christmas and won’t even find the basic decency to tell him? “Whatever you like.” 

Perhaps too much of an edge comes out with this last, because John goes a bit still, pressing his lips together for a moment. He takes a breath. “I was also thinking that maybe we should get a tree tonight,” he says, rather carefully. “I found a lot just down the road and confirmed that they’ve got trees in. They’re limiting capacity, mandatory masks and all that. If you’re not busy… we did tell Mrs Hudson that we’d get a tree soon and that was last week already.” 

Oh. This eases the tightness very slightly. “All right,” Sherlock says, though it’s still cautious. “After supper, then. How late are they open?” 

“Nine,” John says. He checks his phone. “It’s only just after six now. Should give us plenty of time. And Rosie will be in bed by then, won’t be underfoot to pull all the ornaments off the branches and break them.” 

“We’ll have to put Mrs Hudson’s glass ones out of reach,” Sherlock agrees dryly. Rosie is very much at a stage of grabbing at everything she can lay her small hands on. 

John smiles. “That’s settled, then,” he says lightly. “Let me know when it’s time to put those sausages on.” 

Sherlock agrees, and somehow, things feel better. The gratin and sausages both turn out surprisingly well. John comments that he actually likes the gratin better than the standard potato version, and Sherlock allows himself to feel privately pleased. He couldn’t remember the flavours of the sausages he chose when he placed the order, but it turns out they’re curry-flavoured and quite good. John pan-fried them until the skins were crisp and brown and cracking open, and they were perfect with the smooth, creamy, cheesiness of the gratin. Once they’ve finished, they put they put their coats on and go down to tell Mrs Hudson that they’re leaving. She tells them that she’ll bring up the boxes of ornaments and get things ready and generally hang about in case Rosie wakes for some reason, though she’s got a monitor in the kitchen, too. 

“We won’t be long,” John says. “We’re just getting a tree and coming right back.” 

She waves this off. “Take your time, dears. It might be one of the only little joys we get this year, isn’t that right?” 

Sherlock bites back the urge to say something sarcastic along the lines of tree shopping being more of a tedium than a joy. Who knows. For John, perhaps it is a joy. “Shall we?” he says instead, to John, who nods. 

“Sure, yeah,” he says, then adds to Mrs Hudson, “See you soonish.” 

They put their masks on and head out into the night, and it occurs to Sherlock that it’s the first time he’s been outside the flat all day. He takes a deep lungful of frosty air and decides to say this out loud. “I don’t think I’ve even been outside since yesterday.” 

John agrees. “It’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it? We should go for more walks. I know the mask thing puts a damper on it, but I’m getting used to it, honestly.”

“It actually adds warmth,” Sherlock points out, and John agrees with this, too. 

“Nice that it’s snowing,” he adds. 

Sherlock looks up, noticing properly now. “I suppose it is,” he says, careful not to sound overly sentimental about it. He clears his throat. “Where is this place?” 

John nods ahead. “Just up there. Next block over, where the lights are.” 

It’s to be a short walk, then. Whatever. It hardly matters in light of John going away and not telling him about it. Sherlock pushes the thought aside with force. “What sort of a tree were you thinking of?” he asks instead. 

“Let’s see what they’ve got,” John says briskly. They join the queue, wait for their turn, and pass through a bizarrely regimented ten-minute allotment to rapidly scan the tree selection and make a choice. Sherlock leaves that part to John, silently committed to supporting whichever tree John seems to like. John chooses a balsam fir in the end, claiming that it will be deeply aromatic once it thaws. 

“I can already smell it,” Sherlock says. “Certainly. Let’s get this one.” They carry the tree to the register and Sherlock pays, then they rearrange their grip slightly and somehow get the thing back to Baker Street and up the stairs into the flat. 

Mrs Hudson is fiddling with rows of ornaments she’s laid out on the coffee table, their things shifted to one side. She looks up with delight. “That _was_ quick!” 

“There wasn’t much option to dawdle,” John says, setting down the trunk end of the tree with a huff of relief. “Where should we put it? Same place as always?” 

“I rather thought,” Mrs Hudson says. “I put the base there, but you can move it somewhere else, of course. Whatever you like. I’m just here to help.” 

“Help and micromanage, you mean,” Sherlock says dryly, and Mrs Hudson cackles. 

“Of course,” she says airily. “Now: who could do with a mince pie? I’ve brought up a plate of them. Tell you what: why don’t the two of you get your tree properly stood up and I’ll put the kettle on, make everyone a hot drink of his choosing, and then we can get started on the decorating. How would that be?” 

John gives Mrs Hudson a grateful look. “You’re a star,” he says. “I’d love a cuppa, if you’re offering.” 

“Why don’t I make a pot of that cinnamon tea?” she suggests. “It’ll go well with the mince. And speaking of which, you’re having one, young man. You can just do twenty extra push-ups tomorrow or whatever.” 

Sherlock laughs before he can prevent himself, then hastily changes the subject. “Do we approve of the traditional tree placement?” he asks. 

John puts his hands on his hips. “Well, yeah,” he says. “In the window makes the most sense, I think.” 

“Perfect,” Sherlock says. “Then let’s get it into the stand, get the screws in and all that.” 

“Right. We’ve got to give it a stable foundation,” John agrees decisively. 

They’re both covered in sap and needles by the time they’ve got the tree firmly anchored, but the timing works out perfectly: Mrs Hudson is just carrying in a tea tray, laden with the promised mince pies and a pot of fragrant cinnamon tea. “There we are,” she says. “Can’t decorate on an empty stomach, can we?” 

Sherlock exchanges an amused look with John, but neither of them brings up the dinner they just ate less than an hour ago. “Of course not,” Sherlock says gently. He’s aware that it’s been a trying year in more ways than one. Why take this away from Mrs Hudson if it makes her happy? Besides, her mince pies are superlative. He reaches for one and bites into it. “Perfection,” he says through a mouthful of tender pastry and her homemade mince. “What should we start with?” 

Mrs Hudson beams. “The glass ones, I thought,” she says, pointing. “Nice and high, where the little one can’t get her curious little hands on them.” 

“Clever,” John says, and comes over. He reaches for a mince pie and a glass ball at the same time, and Mrs Hudson gives him a grateful smile. “Pour me a cup of that when it’s ready, would you?” 

“It should be now.” Mrs Hudson fills three cups, then selects a bauble and takes it over to the tree. 

Sherlock joins them, thinking that it all feels oddly pleasant, in spite of the year, the isolation, the lack of (real) casework. Mrs Hudson has put on carols, he notices rather belatedly, and the scent of the cinnamon tea is pervading the sitting room. He says something mild about needing to be the one to make sure the uppermost branches get seen to and Mrs Hudson swats him on the arm. 

“No need for any of that,” she says. Then, “Oh! I’m getting a phone call!” She pulls a mobile phone from a pocket of her skirt and answers it. “Hang on a moment, Alice,” she says, then turns back to them and moves the phone away from her mouth. “I’ve got to take this. It’s Alice. You boys go ahead without me.”

She collects her tea and resumes talking to her sister, making for the stairs before either of them can ask if she’s sure. John looks at Sherlock, who shrugs. “I guess we just – carry on, then?” John ventures. 

Sherlock nods. “I suppose, yes. Though, before we go any further, we’ve forgotten to put on the lights. We should do that before the branches get too full.” 

“Oh, of course,” John says. “Silly that we forgot that.” 

They untangle the strings of lights together and hang them with something approaching military precision, then collect sips of their tea before carrying on with the ornaments. A silence falls that feels companionable, less charged than some of them have been of late. Sherlock steals a look at John, trying to keep the wistfulness from showing on his face. John is looking down, his brow furrowed a little in concentration, and Sherlock wants to go over, put his lips to it. Feel the frown smooth away as John smiles, then duck in to put his mouth to John’s, feel John’s arms come around him… 

“You know,” John says quietly, looking down at the string he’s tying to a branch, “I don’t really mind a lot about all the stuff that can’t happen this year. I mean – I miss restaurants and that, but – about Christmas, I mean. I don’t really need all of that… extra stuff.” 

Sherlock glances quickly at John’s eyes, but he’s still looking down. “No?” The fantasy is still there, hovering just beneath the surface in the warmth of the room. 

John shakes his head. “This is all I really want in my life. This sort of thing. Just – to have someone to do this kind of… I don’t know. Domestic stuff with. Someone to decorate a Christmas tree with. Decide where to put it. Just the small stuff.”

Sherlock feels an edge come into his throat. This sounds as though John hasn’t found that person yet, that he still feels a need for it and that the need hasn’t been met as yet. Is the unknown Hazel Grange the answer to this void in John’s life? (Is that even a person?) The image in his head fades, the soap bubble burst and vanishing. Never has the pointlessness of yearning for a lifetime of the very thing John has just mentioned felt more underscored. It was never a realistic dream, never something that John would even contemplate for the two of them. Sherlock will never be an option to fulfill that role in John’s life. He will never feel John’s lips on his own. “I see,” he says stiffly. The pleasantness he was feeling before has evaporated, a heavy hopelessness taking its place. He turns away from the tree to hide his face in his cup of tea, but that’s gone cold now, too. They decorate the rest of the tree in silence, silence which no longer feels companionable, to the point that when Mrs Hudson comes back up to examine the end result of their labour and exclaim over it, it feels like far too much of a relief. 

*** 

The next few days slide by, Sherlock acutely aware of each one passing and Christmas drawing nearer. He’s aware that John’s dug out a suitcase from his closet, a rather large one. He does several loads of laundry, too. He does not mention his trip to Sherlock. Sherlock lies awake thinking about it, glaring up at the ceiling dividing his bedroom from John’s and willing John to just grow a spine and tell him already, tell him that he’s got some sort of secret relationship on the side, something that will invariably erode their entire domestic arrangement, their friendship, and culminate in John moving out again, in all likelihood. That’s where these things lead. He lies there and hates the nameless woman that’s managed to capture John’s attentions this way, whatever her attractions are somehow, incredulously, enough to warrant John leaving him all alone at Christmas, knowing that Sherlock won’t even have his parents to pass the lonely holiday with. 

He thinks obsessively about whatever the place is that John’s found for this clandestine getaway. A cozy bed and breakfast in Cornwall. A posh, boutique hotel in Cambridge. An ancient, thatched-roof country house somewhere. A quaint, stone cottage in the Cotswolds, perhaps, remodelled and tarted up for floods of tourists bent on escaping the boredom of the lockdown. He thinks of the things John will do there, with this faceless enemy. The ways in which she’ll be permitted to touch him, experience John in ways that will remain forever unavailable, beyond reach to Sherlock. He’s never asked. Of course not. It’s simply understood between them that John would never grant him this, never desire it of him return. Sherlock has always known this. It doesn’t stop the want, though. 

On the twenty-first, Mrs Hudson texts Sherlock to ask him to come down for a moment. Her kitchen smells heavenly and the detritus of her baking is everywhere. “I’ve got a little favour to ask,” she says, lowering her voice secretively. “It seems that John’s having a little getaway, isn’t that right?” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, rather sharply. “He hasn’t said.” 

Mrs Hudson almost winces. “I do rather think he is,” she says. “Rosie’s to be with Molly and her parents until the new year, he said, and he’s been doing laundry and I saw that big suitcase out… I think he’s going on the twenty-third.” 

Sherlock feels more stung than ever. “He’s told you, then?” 

Mrs Hudson is apologetic. “We all need a little holiday sometimes, don’t we? Anyway, I wondered if you might put those detective skills to work for me and slip this into his suitcase.” 

She holds out a rather large, round tin. Sherlock takes it reluctantly. “What is it?” 

“Just some baking,” Mrs Hudson tells him. “You know how he’s got, about the sweeties, but it’s Christmas and I want him to enjoy himself. Just sneak it in there before he goes, won’t you? I know he won’t accept it if I try to give it to him.” 

She looks anxious, and Sherlock swallows down a resentful comment about how none of this recent baking is apparently designated for _he_ and John, that only John’s new person warrants this special treatment. “Fine,” he says shortly. “Whatever you want.” 

Mrs Hudson pats his arms and gives him a funny sort of smile. “Thank you, dear,” she says, rather gently. “I’m leaving on the twenty-third, too. I wonder if you’d help me to the station with my things?” 

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says. “It’s too far for you to walk with luggage, especially if it’s icy, and I’d rather you didn’t take a taxi.” 

“Exactly,” Mrs Hudson says. “I thought you’d say that. It’s not all that far to the station, of course, but I’ve got a few gifts and my case and that… if you’d be willing to come along and give me a hand with it all, I should be able to manage once I’m on the train. And then Alice is just across from the station, so that should be fine.” 

“All right,” Sherlock says. “What time do we need to leave?” 

“I think we should go about half-past eleven,” Mrs Hudson decides. “The day after tomorrow.” 

Sherlock nods. “Fine,” he says. He looks down at the tin of baking in his hands and wonders if this signals that Mrs Hudson has already taken John’s side in the question of this new thing in his life. His throat feels tight. It’s ridiculous to feel betrayed by Christmas baking, but he does. It’s Mrs Hudson, who is almost like a second mother to him. She should be taking _his_ side. “I’ll – take this up, then,” he says tightly, and turns and makes for the stairs. 

*** 

The twenty-third dawns without John having told Sherlock that he’s leaving today. Sherlock shuts off his alarm when it goes off and stares gloomily up at the ceiling, trying to will himself to get out of bed. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Christmas is meaningless. He doesn’t celebrate the religion it originated from and doesn’t care about it as a secular holiday, either. Any redeeming part of the unrelenting commercialism might be the notion of time spent with loved ones, and those are generally short on the ground in his life. He can’t see his parents because of the pandemic, and the two people he lives with – three, if he counts Rosie, which he supposes he should – are all leaving him on his own. Anyone would feel a bit depressed, he thinks, scowling. He gets up slowly and dutifully makes himself shower, shave, and get dressed, going through the motions on automatic pilot. _Into battle, then._ It’s a crisp, cold morning. He hunts for the cashmere pullover his mother gave him for his last birthday, but can’t seem to find it. Never mind: he’ll just wear a jacket over his shirt, then. It’ll be a short enough walk to the station. 

Molly came for Rosie yesterday, dutifully allowing John to take her temperature and run her through the list of screening questions before handing his child and her various accoutrements over. There was a whole conversation that involved a lowering of voices which Sherlock, overhearing from upstairs through the open door, assumes means that Molly is also in on John’s secret. He gritted his teeth and resolutely turned the page of the _Times_ and tried to ignore their voices, wholly without success. 

Now, he exits the bedroom and goes to make a pot of very strong coffee. He’s going to need whatever (legal) fortification he can get to withstand this day. There are various thumpings and other noises coming from upstairs, but then John comes down, slipping past him to make for the shower. Sherlock is busy making a fry-up when John nips by the kitchen on his way back up, so there isn’t any chance of a conversation until John comes back down, probably lured by the obvious scents of breakfast being cooked. 

“Morning,” he says. 

Sherlock half-turns, but his eye is caught by the suitcase standing near the doorway of the flat behind John. He wonders briefly whether or not John has noticed the baking tin which he managed to stow there last night while John was in the bathroom. He buried it as deeply under the clothing as he could, briefly wondering why John feels the need to take so many clothes for a one-week trip. Perhaps he’s secretly moving out again already. He should say something, acknowledge John’s greeting, but his voice seems to be caught in his throat. 

John seems to notice. He fidgets visibly. “I – are you – making breakfast?” he asks awkwardly. 

Sherlock nods, turning back to the frying pan he’s supposed to be minding. “Yes.” 

“Anything I can do, or have you got it all…” John trails off. 

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. “You could get plates.” Somehow the words get themselves out. 

“Right. Okay.” John makes a beeline for the cupboards. “Er – listen, Sherlock… I, er… I’m going somewhere and I’m, er, leaving today.” 

Somehow it isn’t even a relief to have John finally say it out loud. The extreme lateness of it just stings all the more. “I wondered when you going to tell me,” Sherlock says, managing to keep his voice even. He keeps his eyes on the contents of the pan, not seeing it. What’s of utmost importance right now is to not seem upset. That would give away his feelings entirely. “What time are you going?” 

The neutrality works, by some miracle. John swallows audibly. “About eleven-thirty, I thought. I think Mrs Hudson is leaving for Devon about then, too. She said you were helping with her luggage, so I thought we could all go together, if that’s… if that works for you.” 

Sherlock wonders briefly what it means, if anything, that John so obviously feels awkward about discussing this with him, too. It probably only signals that he knows or suspects that Sherlock won’t be happy about this development, which makes it all the more important for him to successfully feign indifference to it. He grits his teeth, his back to John, and makes a herculean effort. “That’s fine,” he says blandly. “That’s the time Mrs Hudson told me. Hence my making breakfast now. I thought I’d make a biggish one, do you for lunch, too.” 

For a moment, John doesn’t respond. “Thank you,” he says quietly, after a moment. “That’s – really great of you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes again. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. (Perhaps it won’t matter one day.) “How many sausages would you like?” he asks, in lieu of responding to what John said. 

John doesn’t answer, so Sherlock turns around just in time to catch a glimpse of a deeply-pained look on John’s face. It disappears instantly. “Oh, I don’t mind,” John tells him. “Three or four? How many did you cook?” 

“Eight,” Sherlock tells him. “You normally like to have four, so I made eight.” 

John gives a smile that looks a bit forced. “Then four it is, and thanks,” he says. “I’ll pour us some coffee, shall I?” He turns away to get out some mugs without waiting for Sherlock to confirm. 

Sherlock watches him for a moment, then crossly tells himself to get it together. Focus on serving breakfast. Once the hurdle of the whole business of seeing John and Mrs Hudson off at the station is done, he’ll be left alone to lick his wounds and steel himself against the loneliness of the solitary holiday. For now, what matters is just getting through it. He dishes up their eggs, sausages, tomatoes, and mushrooms, then sets down the pan and goes to sit down across from John. He looks at his plate and wonders how he can even bring himself to eat a bite. 

*** 

They see Mrs Hudson onto her train at Paddington Station, both of them flanking her to keep strangers at a proper distance, Sherlock dutifully pulling her small case behind him. “Keep your mask on,” he tells her, once they’ve got her settled in her assigned seat. “And don’t let anyone sit in the seat beside you or across.” 

“They’re not selling those ones,” Mrs Hudson reassures him. “I’m sure it will be fine.” 

“Yeah, but you know how people are,” John says. “Sherlock’s quite right. Don’t let anyone barge in and try to sit too close. If they do, get the attendant.” 

Mrs Hudson consents to this, then scans both of their faces. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got your own train to catch,” she says, her eyes on John, but they flicker dubiously over Sherlock, too. “All the best with – everything.” 

John ducks his chin in a quick nod. “Right. Yeah. Thanks.” He clears his throat. “Shall we, then?” he says to Sherlock. 

He nods. “Text me if you need anything,” he says to Mrs Hudson. “You know where I’ll be.” 

Mrs Hudson inhales, then stops. “Yes,” she says. “But I’ll be fine, dear. You have yourself a nice Christmas. Both of you. We’ll see you in the new year.” 

They leave her there. John pulls out his phone and checks something. “I think my platform is… yeah, it’s this way. Er… come with me?” 

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes and say something about John surely being able to find his train without assistance. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, though, however precarious he personally feels it is at the moment. Perhaps it’s only precarious for him. Either way, he doesn’t want to leave things on a bad note, either. (He doesn’t want John to leave at all.) “All right,” he says tonelessly, and follows John through the sparser-than-usual crowd. 

They arrive at the platform. “This is it,” John says, confirming the information again on his phone. 

“All right,” Sherlock says again. His hands are in his coat pockets, which is good: it makes him look casual, not as though he feels as if his world is falling apart. He takes a breath, trying to summon some sort of normal words to say at this point. Tell John to have a good holiday or something. The words won’t come, though. 

John’s expression is partly hidden behind his mask. He inhales, too, watching Sherlock carefully. “The thing is,” he starts, sounding as though he’s choosing the words with great care, which Sherlock doesn’t find reassuring at all, “I… sort of need you to come with me.” 

Sherlock is utterly taken aback by this. “Come _with_ you?” he repeats blankly. “ _Why_?”

John’s mouth moves behind his mask in a way that suggests he might be biting his lip. “I… I can’t really say. I just… yeah. Would you mind? I’ve… I’ve got you a ticket already.” 

Sherlock blinks, completely at sea with this. “Where are you going?” he asks, as though the time factor would make any difference. 

John pauses. “It’s about three hours,” he admits. “I know it’s not super close, but… if you could, I… I could really use your – help. When I get there, I mean.” 

Sherlock can feel himself frowning, his eyes tracking what he can see of John’s face in search of some sort of clue as to what on earth John is asking this for. Has he not actually met this woman yet? Is this an internet meet-up, and he’s afraid the woman might be an axe murderer? Sherlock blinks several more times, hoping that the situation will make itself clearer with the benefit of his rapid internal processing, but it doesn’t. John is standing there, almost cringing, palpably worried that Sherlock will say no. _Think_ , Sherlock tells himself. This is important to John. Very important. John needs his help. And it’s not as though he’s got a single other thing on. He would never say no to John asking him for anything, even whatever this is. He could ask ten thousand questions, but the boarding announcement is playing again and there probably isn’t time to have a lengthy discussion about this here and now. Somehow he finds himself nodding numbly. “All right,” he says, and it comes out as uncertainly as he thinks he must look. 

John exhales shakily. “Thank you,” he says, with obvious relief. “Er – okay. We’re in this one.” He nods toward their carriage – first class, Sherlock notices with surprise – and leads the way to their seats. 

He silently helps John lift the heavy suitcase onto the rack above, then sits down next to John in his designated seat. He wants to ask when John bought him a ticket, if it was after he bought his own and if so, how much after, and how he managed to get them seats together. Was this always the plan, to force him to come along and vet this woman, if that’s what this is? If so, why didn’t he just ask? Sherlock swallows down the questions, though, determined to do what he can to keep the peace, even if he’s gritting his teeth at the same time. Though honestly, it’s just nice to have the extra time with John. Even under the circumstances. He shuts his mouth firmly and vows not to say anything that might make this bizarre situation implode. 

Next to him, John is tangibly tense. He doesn’t talk, either, and Sherlock’s sense is that he’s somehow second-guessing himself about something. 

Should he say something to reassure him? Say that he doesn’t mind this odd favour that John has asked of him? Sherlock decides against it. Maybe John is worried about the woman he’s meeting. (Never mind.) Instead, Sherlock focuses on the direction they’re taking, since he missed the information in the announcements. They’re still in the city but headed due west. That doesn’t change as the train gets free of the suburbs, bound in a clear line for the west. Perhaps his guess about the Cotswolds was correct, then. Time will tell, he supposes. He could ask John again, about the travel time. See if that prompts any information about their destination – or John’s destination, rather; Sherlock assumes he’ll be on this same train bound back to London shortly after delivering John to his cozy little love-nest, or wherever it is that he’s going. Sherlock feels himself scowling out the window, which his mask will only partially hide if John notices. 

He _was_ right. They deboard in Stroud after two hours and forty minutes of strained, very minimalist conversation, then John nods toward another platform. “We’ve just got one last, short trip,” he says quickly, still sounding nervous. “I’ve hired a car, which should be… this way, I think.” 

Sherlock follows him mutely, hanging back as John deals with his car reservation. They’re shown to a lot and a nondescript-looking sedan. John opens the boot and Sherlock lifts the heavy suitcase into it for him. 

“Thanks,” John says, still sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “All right – here we go, then.” 

They get into the car, taking off their masks at last. “How far is it?” Sherlock asks, unable to contain his need for information. 

“About thirty, forty minutes, I think,” John says. “Shouldn’t be too long.” 

Sherlock refrains from asking how he’s supposed to get back to the station after. Perhaps John is planning to drive him. Perhaps with the woman. (Never. He would sooner take a taxi.) This is really, he thinks sourly, asking a lot. 

The countryside is fairly lovely, at least, even in the late afternoon of winter. The sky is just beginning to cloud over rather ominously, but the last gleam of the western sun is flooding into the back of the car and lighting the way ahead, not that it sheds any particular light on this peculiar situation for Sherlock. A surreptitious check of his phone map suggests that they’re making for Cirencester, or somewhere close to it. This deduction proves correct as well. John slows as they approach the town, wends his way through its rather pretty streets, lined in honey-coloured Cotswolds stone. He navigates his way to the northern edge of the town, then eventually onto the long drive of a small, stone cottage. There’s a sign on the square stone gatepost. Sherlock bends forward a little to read it. It says _Hazel Grange Cottage_. 

He sits back abruptly, taking a deep breath. Hazel Grange isn’t a woman, then. It’s a cottage. This cottage. He feels even less certain, though. “John…” The name leaves his mouth before he realises that he’s spoken. 

John glances at him and Sherlock perceives immediately that John is even more nervous. “Yeah, this is it,” he says, his voice only just clearing his throat as he switches off the engine. “Come on, then.” 

The attempt at briskness fails to cover the nerves, but it’s a good effort. Sherlock gets out of the car as though on automatic pilot, his legs somehow organising themselves into action.

John is already retrieving the suitcase and shutting the boot. He examines his phone, then, suitcase in tow, goes to the old-fashioned post box and bends to key in the code on the lockbox dangling from it, then leads the way to the front door.

Sherlock follows him slowly, glancing up at the stone cottage. It’s made of the same, deep, honey-hued stone as the other houses nearby, a slate-shingled roof probably a modern replacement for what was once thatch. It’s small, set back from the quiet road. It would be a lovely place to come, if it were in any way intended for him. But it’s not. 

John stops beneath the arch covering the doorway, which is covered in now-leafless climbing ivy. He unlocks the door and lets them both in. 

Sherlock closes it behind him, wondering for the millionth time what on earth is going on. He should just ask, unleash an impatient question or two on John. He’s been very good about holding his tongue thus far, but anyone would be more than justified in demanding some answers about now. But the words still refuse to come, locked away somewhere deeply inaccessible at the moment. 

Perhaps John finds his silence unnerving. He stands the suitcase upright, his hands opening and closing in characteristic nervousness and steps out of his shoes. “Er – so – should we… have a look around?” he asks, his voice coming out a little higher than usual. 

Sherlock shrugs, more with his face than with his shoulders, which seem to be frozen. “All right.” He removes his own shoes but leaves his coat on. The cottage is exceedingly charming, to an extent he finds nearly painful just about now. The front door gives way immediately into the sitting room, its flagged stone floor covered here and there in carpets and mats. The walls are plastered in white with dark wooden beams exposed. The furniture looks worn and comfortable, grouped about a large, stone fireplace. To Sherlock’s right, nestled in the leaded-glass window is a small, live spruce, decorated and lit, giving the room a soft glow. On the far side of the room is an open kitchen with an island, not separated from the sitting room except in how the furniture is arranged. To the left of this, a hot tub sits on a raised platform in the corner, the same, flagged stone leading up to its in low, wide steps. There are bookshelves lined with novels, a basket with bottles of wine and boxes of biscuits and chocolate arranged on the coffee table in front of the sagging, ruby-red sofa. A hammock chair is suspended from a sturdy hook to the right of the kitchen, as though the person doing the cooking might need to be kept company. A hollow wooden staircase leads up to a second level. He follows John silently around the ground floor, John making brief comments about this and that, checking a door beside the hot tub nook that evidently gives out onto a small terrace. 

Next, John makes for the stairs. “Let’s see what’s up here,” he says, still speaking too quickly. 

Sherlock clenches his jaw. There had better be a body or some manner of crime John wants him to investigate here, because otherwise this is really too much now. The upstairs is a partial loft, half the size of the ground floor, a log rail looking over into the kitchen. Nearly the entire space is comprised of a bedroom, a huge, very comfortable-looking bed in the centre and a bathroom visible against the far wall. There are lamps on both night tables but no overhead light, leaving the room in a warm, inviting, overtly-romantic glow. There doesn’t appear to be anything amiss. No bodies. No woman. Nothing unusual whatsoever. Sherlock feels his temper rising. He can’t make himself look at John, or at the bed. He can hardly believe that John would make him come up here, see the place where he intends to be with – whoever it is that he plans to spend his holiday with. In _this_ manner, the manner which Sherlock has wanted so badly for so long, and will never be granted. It’s too much. It’s more than that: it’s unbearable. 

John is looking at him, though, the nerves still palpable. “So – what do you think?” he asks, his pulse thumping in his voice. 

Sherlock makes a gesture he can’t quite control, either, something jerky and defensive. His larynx seems to have grown spikes in his throat, digging in painfully. “Of _what_ , exactly?” 

John winces. “Of – of this cottage,” he specifies. “I mean – do you… like it?” 

This is verging on cruelty. Sherlock looks away and nods. “It’s – quite lovely,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. “Am I permitted to ask who’s to be joining you here, or – what am I doing here, precisely?” 

John’s mouth falls open a little. “Wha – who’s – ” He stops. “I don’t… I don’t understand what you mean.” 

Sherlock bites the bullet at last, glaring at John. “What am I doing here?” he repeats. “You made me come all the way here with you. I didn’t ask why, since you didn’t seem to want to tell me. I knew for weeks that you were going somewhere, but that was obviously a secret, so I didn’t pry. I thought perhaps there was a murder you needed solving, or some woman from one of your dating apps that you needed to have vetted before I was to be permitted to return to London. There doesn’t seem to be either a victim or a woman here, so – _what am I doing here, John?_ ” 

The last few words come out with considerably more resentment than he intended, and John looks as though he’s just been slapped. He swallows hard. “I – I thought it would be obvious, when we got here,” he says, clearly upset. “I – Sherlock, there’s – there’s no one else coming. It’s just you and me. If you’re… if you’ll stay, I mean. That was the plan all along.” He bites his lip. “I just thought… fuck. Maybe I read everything completely wrong. I – ”

He stops again and a silence falls, Sherlock staring at John as though the strength of his gaze alone can possibly make these words make sense. He blinks approximately thirty times. It doesn’t help. “You… intended all along… to come here with… me,” he says, the words coming out in the order he intended, as far as he intended anything at all. 

John swallows. “Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking into a whisper. 

Sherlock pauses for a long time, his eyes skating over the queen-sized bed – the only bed in view – and lingering there as he attempts a rapid recalculation of the entire situation. “Is there…” He stops and clears his throat with difficulty. “There’s… there only seems to be…” 

John nods. “Yeah,” he says again, and this time it’s a little stronger. He clears his throat, too. “It’s – it’s what you’re thinking, Sherlock. You haven’t got it wrong. I… but the closer we got, the more I wondered if it was a completely shit plan and now I think it maybe was, since you’re so… Mrs Hudson said, too.” 

Sherlock still feels completely at sea. “What did Mrs Hudson say?” Even his lips feel numb. 

“That I should just talk to you – I mean, she said it months ago already,” John admits. “I couldn’t work out how to bring it up, though. So stupid, I know. So I thought maybe if I just brought you to – to someplace like this, it would just be… obvious. I thought you would have worked it all out in advance.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I didn’t look on purpose,” he says. Something is failing rather spectacularly in his internal mental processes, preventing him from coming up with a properly-formulated reaction. “You…” He clears his throat and tries again. “You planned this… with _me_ in mind. All of this. Tricked me into taking the train with you. Because you…”

John nods again. “Yeah,” he says, his voice only just making it through. “I never meant you to go back to the station in Stroud. I want to spend Christmas here. With you.” 

For about five seconds that feel like they last a short eternity, Sherlock is caught between about five different responses. The temper that’s still lodged in his throat like a burning coal wins out, though. “John – how the _hell_ was I supposed to know that?” Somehow it feels as though all of the frustration and despair of the past two months is bursting out of him now, broken free from the bonds he’d managed to keep it all tamped down beneath all this time. “I thought you had a secret _girlfriend_ that you weren’t telling me about or something!” 

“What? Oh _God_ , no!” John looks upset. “Shit! I’m so sorry, Sherlock! I never meant you to think that! I mean – I figured you would know that I was planning something – honestly, I fully expected you to be completely unsurprised when we arrived here, but then you weren’t, so then I started thinking that maybe you just didn’t want this and that I’d made a _really_ stupid mistake.” He stops, squinting hesitantly at Sherlock. “I mean… I still don’t know that I _haven’t_. I – like – can I ask? _Do_ you – you know – want… that? With us?” 

Sherlock’s heart is pounding, the thud of it filling his ears, his face hot. “Want – _what_ , precisely?” he demands, still too upset to be rational about this. The weeks of secrecy and the weight of it all are proving too much to simply shrug off, too soon for relief to take its place. 

John bites his lip and squares his shoulders. “I never knew how to say it, all right? How to just – bring it up. And the longer I left it, the harder it seemed to get to just… say that I want there to be more between us. Always have done, if you want to know, though it took me…” He grimaces. “It took longer than I want to admit to be able to see it for what it was, allow myself to even – but that’s the truth, Sherlock: I want to be in a different sort of relationship with you, if you’re… if you think you might be… interested in that.” He stops, wincing again, braced as though for the impact of Sherlock’s response. 

Sherlock is still staring at him, his pulse still racing. “You want that – with _me_ ,” he repeats incredulously, not yet able to believe it. 

John swallows and nods. “Yeah,” he says, not backing down from it. “I do. As it happens… I’m – in love with you, Sherlock.”

For a heartbeat, the entire world seems to stop rotating as Sherlock’s brain attempts to make sense of this. That John planned all of this – a secret getaway to the very sort of romantic little place that Sherlock was dreading – all with the intent of coming here with _him_. That the sorts of things Sherlock darkly feared were to take place in the bed behind John are intended for _him_ , that the hot tub and wine and fireplace and Christmas tree downstairs are for _him_. Because John is in love with him. For about three seconds, Sherlock is desperately afraid that he might actually burst into tears like a child. He can’t speak, his heart caught in his throat. He swallows, then realises he’s standing there blinking and not saying anything to this extraordinary, life-changing pronouncement John has just made. And then all of the pieces fall into place hard enough to shake the entire Commonwealth. He surges forward, closing the space between them in an instant, seizes John’s face with both hands, and plants his mouth on John’s. 

John makes a small sound in his throat, but if he is taken aback by the kiss, he recovers immediately. He kisses back at once, his lips warm and strong and sure on Sherlock’s, and after a moment, he puts his arms around Sherlock’s back and holds him tightly.

It’s everything Sherlock ever dreamed it might be, rising around him in a dizzy, heady, swirl, the intimacy of it piercing him to the core, into his very bones. It goes on for – Sherlock loses track of the time altogether. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that John not stop kissing him. The relief is there now, flooding into his frame with enough strength to knock him off his feet, but the heady passion of the kiss has set every nerve on fire. Some, undefined amount of time later, they break apart to draw breath, but John doesn’t move away from him, blinking into Sherlock’s eyes, his tongue coming out to touch his lower lip. Sherlock is still holding John’s face, his hands cradling John’s head, fingers slotted into the softness of his hair. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but it comes out in a murmur that sounds almost shockingly tender to his own ears. 

“I know I am,” John says fervently, his arms still around Sherlock’s back. “God, Sherlock – I was _dreading_ this and hoping for it just as much, because I _thought_ maybe you were interested, but I was never _sure_. And the closer we got to Christmas, the more distant you seemed to get, so I asking myself thirty times a day if I’d got it completely wrong, that I’d get you here at last and you’d be horrified at the very notion. I still can’t quite believe you even came. I meant to plan things to say for when you demanded answers, but I hadn’t come up with anything even half believable, but then you – ” He stops, blinking up into Sherlock’s eyes. “But I didn’t get it wrong, did I? After all that?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice very low. This time it’s slower as he turns his head very slightly to put his mouth to John’s again, and it goes on even longer this time. He releases John’s face and puts his arms around John’s shoulders as they kiss over and over again. He feels so much that he’s not even sure how to contain it all, that it’s spilling out of him and into John, his own secret of so many years unleashed and impossible to retrieve or hide away again. John’s words are still resonating throughout his frame, reverberating like a plucked cello string. He needs to say it back, put it into words, so that John will know for certain that he’s not alone in feeling what he feels. Sherlock draws back. “I’m in love with you, too,” he says, the utterance coming out low but sure. “I think I’ve always been in love with you. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t.” 

John inhales hard, his face growing so emotional that it physically hurts Sherlock to see. “God, Sherlock – if only I had known!” 

“I didn’t know you did, either,” Sherlock points out. 

“Teach you to call me a bad liar,” John says, and Sherlock gives a startled laugh.

“Fair,” he allows, and John, grinning, kisses him again. This time, their mouths are open and Sherlock shivers the first time John’s tongue touches his. The flame igniting his nerves flares all the more and his grip on John tightens, wanting to press closer still.

It seems there’s still more to be said, though. The next time there’s an opportunity to talk, John shakes his head. “I never realised you might think there was someone else. That never even occurred to me. All of my doubts had to do with whether or not you might want this.” 

“I thought it was frankly rather cruel of you to drag me all the way here just to vet the cottage or the imaginary woman or whatever it was,” Sherlock admits. “This last – showing me the bedroom, where you planned to do whatever unspeakable things with this person – that’s what really set me off, in the end.” 

John reaches up and cups his face with one hand. “Never,” he vows. “Never again. I know I must have seemed bored with the lockdown and whatnot, but if anything, it showed me once and for all that I have every single thing I need, right there at Baker Street. That’s my family: Rosie, Mrs Hudson, and you most of all. All that was bothering me was that I couldn’t seem to work out how to get this part to happen.” 

“I had _no_ idea,” Sherlock says. “None whatsoever.” 

“It’s what I was trying to tell you, or at least start trying to put into words, when we were decorating the tree,” John says ruefully. “I’d even arranged it with Mrs Hudson to get Alice to phone when she did, to give us a spot of privacy. I know you’re not hugely into Christmas, but I just thought that maybe that particular moment might feel like the right time. I’d started thinking she was right, that I should try to get us sorted before coming here, but then you came over all stiff and cold and I didn’t know what to think. I don’t think I’ve ever been more discouraged than that night. I thought about cancelling this, but I didn’t, somehow.” 

Sherlock exhales in a rush. “For God’s sake,” he says with exasperation. “I completely misunderstood. I thought you were talking wistfully about this life you wished you had, with some woman to decorate a tree with and whatever else, and that I had no hope of ever filling that role in your life. I don’t think _I’ve_ ever felt more discouraged, either! I’m the idiot here. I just – assumed you couldn’t have possibly meant me.” 

“No, this really is on me,” John tells him, looking into his eyes. “I’m absolute rubbish at this stuff and this is a bigger failure than usual, even for me. I should have just come out with it and told you, months back already. Years.” 

Sherlock’s lips press themselves together. “Years?” he repeats, not wanting to press too hard, even now, but he also very much wants to hear this. 

John nods soberly. “Yeah. You’re not the only one. Turns out we’re both pretty good at hiding this, which is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But yes, Sherlock: years. Probably from the very start, if I’m being honest with myself.” His eyes drop to Sherlock’s lips and he speaks very matter-of-factly. “I mean, I always knew I was attracted to you. From day one, Sherlock. And I knew you were by far the most important person in my life. That’s never changed. It just took me awhile to admit all of it to myself, and acknowledge what it all added up to, and that’s this: I love you. You’re the only person I want, that I’ve wanted since the day I met you. No one and nothing else could even compete.” 

Sherlock’s throat grows tight again. “John – ” This time he doesn’t hold back, pressing as close to John as he can get, needing as much contact as he can possibly get, and John lets him have it, holding Sherlock to himself as they kiss, his hands rubbing up and down the length of Sherlock’s back, then coming between them to work open the buttons of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock makes a sound of enthusiastic agreement to this, unbuttoning John’s jacket and simultaneously shrugging his coat onto the floor. It feels all the better now with so much less separating them. It feels as though seven years of pent-up yearning is thundering through the floodgates, unstoppable and impossible to take slowly or be in any way detached about, but John is kissing him and touching him with just as much passion, the hunger plainly evident in every touch as he grips Sherlock’s back through his suit jacket. 

He pulls away, though. “Is this – this isn’t too – ”

“ _No_!” Sherlock says vehemently. “John – please – ” His mouth is on John’s again before he’s even allowed John to answer, but John doesn’t seem to mind at all, a muffled laugh getting swallowed into the kiss. 

“Just – thought I should – check,” he gets out, in between. “If you only knew how much I’ve been holding this back – ”

“ _Don’t_ hold back!” Sherlock doesn’t even care how desperate it makes him sound. It _is_ that desperate. He exhales vocally as John’s lips and tongue find his throat. A moment later, John’s hands travel from Sherlock’s lower back to settle warmly on his arse, squeezing, and Sherlock hears himself make an embarrassingly loud sound. He’s never been touched like this before and had no idea what it would feel like. His entire body spasms, pressing into John’s. Arousal is spreading through his frame like wildfire, and as John moans and presses into him just as much as Sherlock is, it becomes immediately clear that he’s in the same boat. Sherlock wants to climb him like a tree, fuse himself permanently into John’s flesh, never stop touching him for a single minute. 

“ _God_ , Sherlock,” John breathes. “I can’t even tell you how badly I want you!” 

“Then have me!” Sherlock is too far gone to care about his dignity at this point. He can’t remember ever having wanted something this much. “Take the rest of it off!” 

He means his clothes, which he didn’t say, but thankfully John still has more than a handful of brain cells functioning. He nods hurriedly and hastily gets Sherlock’s jacket and shirt unbuttoned, pausing only long enough to haul his own jumper over his head. He resumes kissing Sherlock even as his fingers begin to work at getting Sherlock’s trousers open while Sherlock fumbles at his jeans. There’s a moment of kicking and then they’re both in their underwear, bodies pressed together, both of their erections unmistakable and hard. John’s entire body is giving off heat, nowhere more than there, and Sherlock is swooning with it. 

He gasps as John touches him through his underwear first, then slips his hand inside to curl around him, his fingers knowledgeable and firm, the touch almost excruciatingly pleasurable from the very start. Sherlock can’t seem to get enough air, and when he’s finally able to breathe out, it comes out in a moan. He’s doing his best to do the same things to John, moaning again at the feel of John in his hand at last. 

They stand there, rubbing and squeezing each other and kissing breathlessly and then John says, “I need to taste you, Sherlock. I’m dying to. Can I – ?” 

Sherlock opens his eyes, almost alarmed by this, but John’s eyes are gentle, his pulse thudding visibly in his head. “If – if you really – ” he stammers, absolutely lost on what one is supposed to say to a request of this nature. 

“I _really_ want to,” John reiterates. “I’ve come shockingly close to giving it a go as it is, on more than one occasion.” He drops to his knees and gently works Sherlock’s underwear all the way down, helping him step out of it. His eyes flick back up to Sherlock’s. “You have a phenomenal cock. It’s exactly how I’ve always imagined it. And believe me, I’ve imagined it! So – can I?” 

His words warm Sherlock to the very core of his being, and somehow he finds himself nodding wordlessly. John smiles and, holding his erection, puts the head of it into his mouth. Sherlock shouts loudly enough to bring the local police down on Hazel Grange, but John doesn’t stop. The amount of pleasure swimming through his veins at the feeling of John’s mouth on him like this is incomprehensible. He’s never felt anything remotely this good in his life and he’s helpless to do anything but gasp and moan and fight the urge to thrust into John’s mouth. He doesn’t need to, though – John is sucking and sucking, his hands stroking and touching whatever his mouth isn’t and Sherlock is just standing there, fingers grasping at his own head for lack of knowing what else to hold onto, dying of how intensely good it feels and struggling to breathe. The pleasure coalesces very suddenly into a bright spike and he can’t even get the words organised to say something before it – the orgasm hits hard and he's shouting and shaking as it bursts out of him and into John’s mouth (oh _God_!) and he can’t stop it or pull himself from John’s lips; all he can do is stand there, coming and coming and helpless to do anything about it until it stops. 

When it finally does, Sherlock feels dazed. His knees give way, but John is right there, catching him and pulling him down to the faded carpet beneath them, kissing Sherlock’s hot face over and over again. He’s murmuring things, Sherlock realises as the thud of his own, exploding heartbeat begins to fade from his eardrums. “ – you’re brilliant, you’re so amazing – ” The babbled nonsense is feverish and Sherlock has the wit to realise that John must be in an extremely urgent state by now. He twists himself around in John’s arms and reaches for him. John’s erection is wet with need and throbs tangibly when Sherlock’s hand closes around him again. He moans and Sherlock presses his face into John’s temple, nodding. 

“God yes,” he breathes. “I never thought I would be allowed to touch you this way – I’ve wanted to for so long…” John moans at this and Sherlock goes faster, murmuring things he never thought to permit himself to actually say out loud. 

“Sherlock – !” John’s voice rises, sounding almost unsure of himself, and that won’t do. 

“Yes, John – yes!” Sherlock’s arm is under John’s shoulders, gripping him fiercely as he rubs and squeezes, John thrusting into his fist, his mouth open, eyes tightly closed, and then he gives an even harder thrust, shouting out as he fills Sherlock’s hand with his release. It’s hot and wet and it comes several more times, streaking up his forearm and onto his stomach. When it subsides at last, John sags against him and Sherlock stops touching him, surreptitiously wipes his hand on the nearest piece of clothing he can reach (someone’s underwear, he thinks vaguely), then curls himself around John there on the carpet. They lie there together, panting, John’s hand stroking Sherlock’s forearm where it’s lying across his torso. Sherlock can’t think of a single time in his life that he’s ever been this happy. He feels dazed with it, as well as physically sated and flooded with the glow of an aftermath he’s never previously experienced. “This,” he says, when he’s able to speak again, “is vastly better than being on a train back to London right now.” 

John laughs, his whole body resonating with it. He turns so that he’s facing Sherlock, sliding an arm around his back. “Not without me, you’re not,” he says, his face dreamy and smiling. “We’ve got this place for twelve days.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John – clever, brilliant John – anticipates him and cuts him off. 

“I packed for you, obviously,” he says. “That’s why I’ve got such a big suitcase. And speaking of which, Mrs Hudson sent along a tin of mince pies for you. She said she knew you wouldn’t feel it was Christmas without them.” He rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. 

Sherlock frowns. “When did she give you those?” 

John thinks. “Three days ago, I think? Yeah. The twentieth.” 

Sherlock thinks back over everything, realising now that Mrs Hudson was in on the plan all along. “So all of that – her asking me to help bring her things to the station – that was all just part of the ruse.” 

“Yes, of course,” John says affectionately. “She wanted this almost as much as we did, you know.” 

Sherlock thinks of the tin of baking he snuck into the suitcase. So those things _were_ for him as well as for John. Because there was never any secret girlfriend. “In retrospect, I think I’ve been a bit thick,” he admits. 

John laughs. “At this point, I can’t even say whether that helped or hurt my cause.” He bends forward and kisses Sherlock again, for a convincingly long time, then pushes himself into a sitting position. “I’ve made a mess of both of us. I could do with a shower.” 

Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, looking up at John. “You seem to have forgotten about the hot tub downstairs…” 

“You’re right!” John looks delighted. “You’re absolutely bloody right! All right, tell you what: I’ll get that sorted while you find the menus for the restaurants nearby. I was told they all deliver right now and that there would be menus somewhere in the cottage. Then we can have a look while we test out the hot tub. And then later, we’ll have to talk some more. There’s still so much to get through, so much I want to say to you, or ask you.” 

Sherlock sits up, though he’s in no particular hurry. “All right,” he says, his eyes on John’s nude form as he bends to collect their scattered clothing. “Low carb options, specifically?” 

John hesitates, half-turning back to him. “I might take a break from that, since we’re on holiday,” he says. “I mean, unless you think I shouldn’t…” 

Finally: a golden opportunity. Sherlock gets to his feet and goes to John, putting his arms around him in a way that feels almost brazen, despite what just happened between them. “You are perfect,” he says, his voice very low. “You were perfect fifteen pounds heavier, and you’re perfect now.”

John’s jaw clenches and his face grows emotional. “Sherlock – all I’ve wanted is for you to find me attractive. That’s what it’s all been for.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “If I’d had any idea, I’d have told you months ago. Not that I don’t find your working out immensely appealing. But if you want to stop doing those godforsaken mountain climbers, then stop doing them. Or,” he adds, since John’s eyes have taken on a glassy sheen, “do them anyway, but let me watch you.” 

It works: John’s tears recede and he gives a startled laugh. “If I’d had the _slightest_ idea…” 

Sherlock grins. “You do now,” he says archly. “So: take-out menus. Got it. I’m also going to hunt out those tins of baking.” 

John beams at him. “Life just got so good, you know,” he says. “If it’s already this unbelievably amazing, we’re in for it.” 

They’re still in each other’s arms, so Sherlock turns his head and puts his lips to John’s again for a long, slow, very sweet moment. “I think I do believe it,” he says after. “Now let’s see about that hot tub.” 

*** 

The clouds that were gathering during sunset have become a heavy, steady snowfall, the flakes coming down in thick profusion. They’re only just visible through the windows just behind John, which are eighty-five percent covered in steam from the hot tub. They’re sitting closely together, Sherlock’s arms around John as he reads menu options aloud for them both. It’s a bit silly and impractical, but not touching John just now isn’t on the table. 

“They’ve got a list of curries,” he says, his cheek pressed into John’s. “Green, red, yellow, panang, massaman. Choice of meats, obviously. Do you feel like Thai?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” John says, his voice lazy and utterly content. His legs are hooked over Sherlock’s right thigh, one arm wedged around his back. The water is fizzing around them, hot and immensely relaxing. “What are the other options?” 

With difficulty, Sherlock manages to put the top pamphlet to the back of the pile, stopping to press his lips to John’s cheek as he does so, still inwardly marvelling that he’s allowed to do this. “There’s Indian,” he says. “You always like Indian.” 

“True,” John says thoughtfully. “What else have we got?” 

“This one’s for some place called The Brazen Hall,” Sherlock says. “Seems very Arthurian, knights of the round table and that sort of thing. Lots of game pies and venison, I would imagine. They’ve probably got a fireplace large enough to roast a whole ox.” 

John is laughing, his entire frame resonating with it. “We could just read the menu, but what would be the point?” He pulls the entire stack of takeaway menus from Sherlock’s unresisting fingers and puts them to the side of the tub. “Besides, how’m I supposed to concentrate on food when I’ve got you at last?” 

His unfiltered words warm Sherlock to the core. He’s never felt anything remotely like this, sitting naked in someone’s arms in a hot tub, the intimacy of it nearly overwhelming – except that it isn’t, because he’s craved it for so very long. “A valid question,” he allows, looking into John’s eyes, their faces so close that their noses are almost touching. “I can’t quite make myself grasp that this is happening, you know.” 

“I know.” John agrees instantly. “We went from all that awkward non-conversation to you being angry to winding up on the floor upstairs in about twenty minutes. And that was less than an hour ago. But it’s not – you’re not – ”

Sherlock pulls back just enough to take in John’s expression properly. “I’m not what?” 

“You know – finding it too quick,” John says, sounding apologetic. “I mean, some people might have eased in a little slower.” 

Sherlock frowns, though nothing could possibly happen that would make this go wrong now, he thinks. “It was years overdue,” he says. “Far too long. If we plunged in with enthusiasm, who could blame us? And besides, who cares? You don’t mind, do you? You’re not – having second thoughts or something?” 

“God, no!” John hastens to reassure him. “I just thought I should – I don’t know, check. I mean, you’re the one who brought up the topic of sex in the first place, of those ‘unspeakable things’ you thought I might do in that bed with that imaginary girlfriend. And – I mean, you’ve said before, that you’ve never really done that sort of thing, so I was a bit surprised – but as long as you’re happy, I’m over the moon, Sherlock. I can’t wait to explore all of that with you, because I’ll have you know that you’re the only person I’ve got any plans to do unspeakable things with, in that bed or anywhere else.” 

Even with the hot water, Sherlock feels himself stir at these words. “Would that include this hot tub?” he asks, the question coming out archly. 

John grins. “Could do,” he murmurs, then puts his mouth to Sherlock’s again, his hand coming to rest between Sherlock’s legs and beginning to stroke. 

Sherlock’s response is wholly non-verbal, mirroring John’s motion immediately, and it’s heaven. It’s absolute bliss. He ends up with his cheek pressed into John’s hard enough to leave a mark from his cheekbone as John tries to claim later on, gasping as John’s fist works over him, his body arching up out of the water as the orgasm crashes over him, John spasming into his fist just seconds later, profanity groaned into Sherlock’s ear as he does, and then they’re sagging into each other’s arms again, panting, legs floating limply. It’s better than Sherlock even allowed himself to dream it could be. 

Eventually, John’s stomach gives a loud growl, which doesn’t even embarrass him. “I suppose I am hungry,” he says mildly, even as Sherlock laughs at him. “I’ve no idea what time it is.” 

Sherlock finds that his usual sense of time has abandoned him, too. “I don’t know,” he says, craning his head to see if there’s a clock about. There is, hanging over the kitchen sink. “Oh. It’s almost seven. Those sausages were rather a long time ago. Do you know what you want to eat yet?” 

John gives him a lazy grin. “Besides you, again?” 

Even in his post-climactic satedness, Sherlock feels a touch of heat come into his cheeks. “I meant for dinner,” he says a bit diffidently, and John pushes himself off the wall of the hot tub to attack his throat with his mouth. Sherlock holds him feels as though his face hurts from smiling so much. He pulls John’s face up and kisses him with conviction, abandoning the topic of dinner. 

After a bit, John pulls away. “Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s save the whole roast boar or whatever for Christmas Day. I think I’m feeling like butter chicken. You choose whatever else.” 

The thought of butter chicken has considerable appeal, even with the massive distraction of John right in front of him, in his very arms. Sherlock’s appetite makes a sudden return after days of listlessness. He barely tasted the breakfast he cooked them earlier. “Can we get samosas?” he asks hopefully. 

“Anything you want,” John vows. He reaches for the pile of damp menus and climbs out of the hot tub. “I’m going to light the fire while you order. And then later, after we’ve eaten, let’s get dressed and go for a walk in the snow. It’s looking gorgeous out there, like a Christmas card.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock already knows that he would agree to absolutely anything John has to suggest right now. (Right now? Anytime, always. He’s always known this.) Even so, he feels a thousand times more pliable to John’s will than ever before. He steps out of the tub and takes the thick, fluffy towel John is holding out to him. “I’ll order first and then get dressed,” he decides. 

“Good idea.” John kisses him, then moves off toward the sitting area, saying things about firewood. 

Sherlock looks happily around the beautiful little cottage that he resented so deeply not even an hour ago. He still feels nearly dizzy with the speed at which this has all come about, but he wouldn’t change it for anything. An hour ago, he was breaking his heart over some woman he thought John had planned to come here with. Now he’s already lost count of how many times he’s been permitted to kiss John, and they’ve already done _that_ – twice! And after all of this, he and John will go back upstairs to the immensely comfortable-looking bed up in the loft bedroom, only this time, he’ll know it’s meant for him. There are whole worlds of discovery ahead: sleeping with John. And everything else that could happen, too. He looks down at the paper menu John left with him, still smiling. The night is young. First things first: butter chicken and samosas: yes. Everything else will follow as it likes. 

*** 

They walk through the falling snow, having left the town behind them in favour of the cobbled road winding its way up through the fields behind Hazel Grange. The snowflakes are thick and large, gathering in profusion under their feet and crunching as they walk along. John’s gloved hand is in his and there’s a tremendous sense of peace and tranquility all around them. Perhaps it’s merely coming from within him, Sherlock thinks. He can’t tell. 

The countryside is blanketed in a deep, heavy quiet, the clouds mauve and low in the sky. They spent a happy hour exploring the village itself, discussing which little shops might be open under pandemic restrictions and which probably would not, though it doesn’t matter. Their delicious meal has settled, and Sherlock discovered his cashmere pullover in the massive suitcase John packed for them both, along with his winter boots. John thought of everything – everything except, possibly, letting him know that he was invited all along. Never mind: it’s funny now, almost. 

They stop at the crest of a short hill, pausing to admire the view spread out before them. Lights are twinkling in the village, smoke rising from stone chimneys. They left the fire burning low in the grate, with intentions of building it up again once they return, as well as possibly finishing off the bottle of merlot they opened with dinner. Sherlock’s heart feels full to bursting. 

John puts both arms around his middle and looks up at him with unfiltered emotion. “God, I’m glad I didn’t manage to wreck this,” he says with feeling. 

Sherlock’s arms fold themselves instinctively around John’s shoulders in return, in a way that already feels terribly, intimately familiar. “Me too, honestly,” he says, angling to make John laugh. 

He only smiles, though, his eyes terribly serious. “Who could have thought that in _this_ year, of all years, when so many people have lost so much and we’ve all found our lives shrunk down to the bare essentials – who would have thought that we’d have finally found this, after bungling it for so many years?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I never would have,” he says soberly. “But what you said, earlier – it’s true for me, too: this is all I want. This life. You and me and Mrs Hudson and Rosie. But you, most of all. I don’t care about any of the rest of it. We’ll work again when it’s time. Right now, this is all I could possibly want. Just you.” 

John swallows and his eyes go starry. “I love you,” he says simply. “I’m so glad you came here with me. Merry Christmas.” 

Sherlock’s throat attempts to close, but for once, the words don’t fail him. “Merry Christmas, John,” he says. And then, before it can swamp him completely, he adds, “Can we crack open those tins of Mrs Hudson’s baking when we get back?” 

John’s laugh comes out with a cloud of frozen breath and just as much emotion as Sherlock is fighting to keep from taking over. “Yeah, we can do that,” he says. “On the condition that I get to snog you breathless before, during, and most definitely after.”

The danger moment passes. Sherlock smiles, his arms still around John’s shoulders. He brushes a bit of snow out of John’s hair and the gesture alone makes him feel more than he knew he was capable of feeling all at once. “Let’s start now,” he proposes. 

John’s answer doesn’t come in words, but he’s agreeing, his voice low and warm as he pulls Sherlock’s mouth back to his. 

It’s the best Christmas of his life. 

*


End file.
